Division
by MrsNoggin
Summary: John likes mysteries. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another. Coffee Shop AU. Eventual Johnlock, I'm sure.
1. Chapter 1

_**A.N.**_ _Not quite sure what happened here. Being a coffee addict, I just kind of got sucked into the whole coffee shop AU thing. And I can make no apologies - I love it, in my own special little way._

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John likes mysteries. He spends all day at work solving them, diagnosing illnesses, adding two and two and getting cystitis (not personally), saving the world in his own small way. He goes home and reads twisting thrilling books, turns on the TV and watches crime solving programmes, switches over to a detective movie and saves the world all over again. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another mystery.

Sherlock.

He has been making John's coffee for him for almost six months now, ever since John accidentally discovered the warm, sweet-smelling haven crammed full of the softness of overly plump sofas and the hardness of chunky wooden barstools. Division. So the hand-painted sign across the door told him.

In an odd way, almost mysterious, the world had conspired to introduce him to the world of Division. He had been running late that Monday; a mid-night power cut had reset his alarm, not allowing him time for breakfast, let alone his coffee. The spring breeze had been keen, buffeting the commuters, tugging at the slack of John's trousers as he walked, tantalising his nostrils with the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans as he passed a shop he had never before had reason to notice. He dipped inside on a whim, ordered a double macchiato to take out. The guy on the till was friendly and warm, giving him a smile with his change. John moved along to the other end of the bar to wait for his drink.

Sherlock had made it. He has made it almost every day since then. Not a young guy, probably not much younger than John, standing out amongst the students that make up the majority of the staff. Divided, like everything else in that place. Nothing matches at all, nothing fits together, but everything fits _around_ each other. The bitterness of coffee and the sweetness of the freshly baked pastry, the white-lit front bar and the dim seating to the rear, the scruffy old man eating chocolate cake in the corner and the bright young suited thing sitting on a stool in the window.

Sherlock is tall, dark and silent. He has never spoken to John. Not once. Not one word. Mind you, John doesn't take it personally, he doesn't speak to any of the other customers. And hardly to his colleagues either. He just stands at his machine and crafts his own liquid art while the buyers look on.

It's not that he ignores John. Far from it, in fact.

That first day he hadn't even looked away from his machine. His capable hands had steamed the milk. Had ground and tamped and pulled and poured the coffee, frothed the rested milk, banging and swirling it out. Had marked John's coffee with a somehow efficient flourish, setting the dark curls on his head bobbing with the movement, before clipping the plastic lid over the top and sliding it across the counter. All without him once looking up.

The second day Greg on the till had announced the order ('_macchiato, double, foam dash, take out') _and Sherlock had glanced over, as if noting John's repeated presence, but the creative process was the same.

John had returned on the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, but it wasn't until the next Monday that anything changed. John left his flat twenty minutes earlier. Greg called over the order ('_macchiato, double, foam dash, __in__') _and Sherlock had hesitated for a split second, the hand that had stretched automatically towards the cardboard cups above his head pausing in mid-air as he registered the end of the order, and the modification. John's coffee was served in a small white cup with a saucer and spoon, and instead of sliding it absently across the counter, Sherlock had turned, leaning over the wooden worktop to place it carefully on the edge near John.

His eyes were pale blue, long lashed and incredibly un-shy as they flicked up curiously from the dotted foam on the surface of the coffee. John had flashed a grateful smile and taken his drink, trying not to feel unnerved by the silent observation that burned his back as he strolled to an empty table, scooping up an abandoned newspaper on the way.

Six months later the routine is the same. John leaves his flat at the same time every day and pushes his way through the surprisingly stiff door to the coffee bar five minutes later. Greg doesn't even bother to ask anymore. The two of them have gotten to know each other a little in the time John has been drinking there. Just the odd chat in the quiet moments. Greg owns the place, and he likes to know his regulars. John wants to ask him about Sherlock. But what would he ask?

There is one thing of which John is certain. Sherlock's mouth may not do much, but his eyes do. John has never seen eyes so _hungry_. In the two seconds it takes him to lean over the counter and hand John his coffee, Sherlock's gaze sweeps over him, drinking in every tiny detail, focussing on the spot he missed when shaving, or the scab healing on his finger, the tiny ink blot on his jacket sleeve. Sherlock passes his seat sometimes, carrying trays of glasses and mugs into the backroom, or bottles of milk, his forearms vein-lined under the weight. And always, if John looks up, Sherlock is watching. Occasionally John offers him a smile, a tightening of lips, a creasing of eyelids, a nod or tip of the chin. But receives nothing in return.

It's Monday. Autumn is chilling the air, the resultant twinge in John's shoulder makes him grumpy. The damp cold air brings with it stiffness, pain, old war wounds returning to taunt him. The mist in the air turns unexpectedly to rain two minutes after he leaves, which helps his mood very little.

Division is quiet, only a handful of other regulars that John knows well enough now to nod at in the street. He walked past once, later in the day and was surprised at how busy the place got. One of the benefits of having to be at work so early is that he gets a quiet coffee, in the same comfy armchair every day.

Greg greets him easily, leaning over the counter and sketching out a rota. John makes a concerted effort to straighten and even his gait, stretching through a tightness in his hip. They participate in the general inane pleasantries while he pays. He knows his coffee will be ready before he even gets over to the other end of the bar; Sherlock started on it as soon as John came in the door.

When he gets there, however, the counter is empty, his miniature mug still cradled in the long fingers curled around it. Sherlock is stood still, his hungry eyes devouring. John says nothing. For five seconds Sherlock looks, gaze darting over John, finally resting on his face. He places the cup down. There is no saucer. There hasn't been for months now, he realises. Good, he hates saucers.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

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_Do drop me a line, a review, a message. Let me know if you liked it. I do so much like to know... _


	2. Chapter 2

_**A.N. - **Big thanks to **Daziechane**, for reading through this for me and (hopefully) not being pissed off when I ignored almost everything she said ;o)_

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"_Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

Sherlock's voice is, strangely enough, exactly what John is expecting; as dark as his hair, as smooth as his skin, as sinful as the lines of his throat. John is glad he hasn't yet picked up his drink, or he might have just dropped it. It takes a second for him to work through the shock and register what was actually said.

"Sorry?!"

His eyes are still on John's, smoky and serious, "Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

How does he know? John wants to look away. He wants to look down at himself, see what Sherlock sees. Needs to see something clear, some clue on himself that gives away his secrets. "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you–"

Sherlock looks down, breaking the probing look and somehow choking the question to a halt in John's mouth. He reaches forward, nudging the coffee an inch closer. "Coffee."

A split second later he has twisted on the spot, leaving John staring at the black-shirted points of his shoulder-blades, wandering what the hell just happened.

The name 'Afghanistan', almost a year unspoken from his lips, calls back something firmly stamped down within John, and when he turns the muscles in his right thigh seize suddenly, unlevelling the floor, twisting his centre of balance. With an unmistakeably pained curse, he is forced to steady himself on the wall with a shaking hand.

He'd like to say it's been a long time since his leg has been this bad, but it hasn't. Just last winter it had returned, as if prompted by the damp-aggravated stiffness of his shoulder, and if he's honest he's been stubbornly fighting it off for a good week now. He'd like to blame it on Sherlock, but the only person he can blame is himself. So he downs his coffee in less than five minutes and departs, leaving behind the heavy curiosity from the bar.

* * *

Rude, disrespectful, downright offensive. John rages about the impertinence of the forthright question for the rest of the day. Though really, his rage is mainly aimed inwards, at himself, at his own weaknesses and sensitivities. He grumbles and frowns and clenches his fists until his shoulder has tensed into a knotted ball of pain and his limp becomes so pronounced that Sarah advises a prescription of anti-inflammatories with a sympathetic voice. John just snaps at her and the swiftly shielded hurt on her face only brings about more for him to be annoyed with himself for.

He almost considers not going for a coffee, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling the next morning. He could roll over and snooze his alarm, have another fifteen minutes in the warm cocoon of his duvet. But his sheets are quite sweaty and twisted, actually, a bit uncomfortable. He's not even that sleepy anymore.

Who's he kidding? He's just not sure he could stand starting the day without it. Or him. Damn him.

It's an irritating struggle to get his legs into his uncooperative black trousers, the stiffness of his shoulder and the deep-rooted pain in his hip throwing him off balance. In the end he has to give up and sit on the edge of his bed. The face in the mirror on the inside of his open wardrobe door is grimacing at him. Autumn is most definitely setting in. Peeking out from behind his winter coat hanging at the far right is a narrow cylindrical stripe of dark wood. John doesn't want to retrieve it, but even he can't put up with the strain his aching muscles are putting on his hip joint.

The walking stick feels uncomfortably familiar in his hand, and it only takes a handful of paces down the street to get the rhythm back. It's an automatic correction for him to enter the coffee shop with his good shoulder on the door instead of the hand now curled around the handle of his cane. And he hates it.

"John," Greg smiles. It's half greeting, half command for his barista to get started.

If Greg notices the stick, he says nothing. He takes John's fiver, gives him change and a casual smile before leaning back down over his paperwork on the counter. John waits until the last possible moment before he moves on. He listens, without looking, for the hiss of the steam arm, the banging out of the milk. He hears the coffee arm clanging out on the solid metal bin and the new beans being ground. And only when he hears the slosh of the froth onto the top of his drink, does he shift off from his spot, stop staring at the condensation clouding the corner of the cold drinks fridge, and head to retrieve it.

A moment of déjà vu; instead of placing the mug down on the bar, Sherlock is still holding it, his fingers wrapped around like they need the warmth. He is avoiding the rim of the cup, John realises, desperate to realise _something _and avoid looking at Sherlock, so that anywhere John might place his lips on the glossed surface is virgin territory, untouched by coffee dusted fingertips.

John braces himself, but today Sherlock is back to silence, saying nothing. He doesn't hand the drink over, instead sweeping his greedy eyes over John's form. He steers himself carefully around the corner of the bar, hip first, long limbs gliding him out into the shop. John's brow creases in confusion, until the barista reaches his usual seat and puts the mug down on the low table. John is stuck between gratitude for the thoughtfulness, offence at implication of being a cripple, and annoyance at the presumption. But when he follows, picking up the paper, Sherlock stands still waiting for him.

"I apologise for any discomfort I may have caused yesterday," Sherlock says quietly. It could have been called a mumble, except his words are clear cut. He doesn't sound very sorry, more like he is sorry to have to be apologising.

"No, no it's –" John is going to say _fine_, automatically ever so British, but he stops himself in time. It is _not_ fine. It is downright... unfine. Only as the brow in front of him dips and creases does he realise he has said that out loud.

"Sorry..."

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not." Sherlock gives a twitch of a lip, as if he wants to smile, but isn't quite sure how.

John does smile, at the outright cheek of the man, and sits down to drink his coffee. He looks instinctively across as he hears another drink being made, watching Sherlock's arms automatically reaching for a cup from the top of the machine and whipping together the ingredients. Greg catches his eye, still behind his till, a pen tucked behind his ear, but staring at John with unabashed curiosity. He glances to his barista and then back to John.

And so it begins.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A.N.** More thanks to **Daziechane**, my unofficial beta, who makes a habit of giving me some very good pointers. Also to **GoodOldJames** for his neverending whimsical sarcasm that inspires my Sherlock voice._

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_And so it begins._

The movements and sounds are familiar and soothing. A hand reaches blindly for a cup, fingers curling around first time and clinking it down onto the counter. The steam arm hisses, a cotton cloth sliding up down, up down before the tip sinks home into the cold milk. The crash of the coffee arm on the solid metal bin, gravel and grind of beans, the hum of the machine.

Sherlock looks up at him curiously as he puts the full cup down delicately, "It's psychosomatic, you do know?"

"Yes, thanks." John doesn't even bother being offended, he knows it won't make the slightest whit of difference. He just takes his coffee and heads for his chair.

The scent of the bean dust in the air breeds anticipation, a low aching in the base of John's skull as the back of his throat longs for the hot wash of his coffee. Just the scent of the caffeine heightens his senses, the grain of the bar-top is smooth and satin under his palm.

"Army doctor or soldier who just happens to be a doctor?" Sherlock asks sliding the artfully created macchiato across the bar.

"Over-qualified medic."

Sherlock nods, and turns to make the next drink. John flashes a quick smile at a confounded Greg and limps away.

There is muted jazz playing from the tiny stereo today. A tickling jumble of piano underscoring the hiss and whoosh of the coffee machine. Sherlock unconsciously bangs the milk jug on the wooden countertop in rhythm.

"A brother or a sister?"

"Sister. One."

"You don't talk."

"Not really, no." John stiffens in preparation for the natural progression of the conversation; why? But it doesn't come. Sherlock just places the coffee down and turns to fill the next order.

The air is cold now, no longer only laced with a chill. John's winter coat has come out, though his gloves remain in his pocket. There is something comforting in the cosiness of his scarf, a soft embrace around his neck. John always looks forward to the crispness of late autumn, but it takes longer to arrive this year, seemingly forgotten amidst the rain. The surgery has been full of colds and coughs and nothing he can actually treat. Frustrating, but safe.

"I play the violin." Sherlock doesn't look at him when he speaks.

"Oh." John doesn't know how to take that. It's the first time information has been volunteered, rather than taken. Last week he had a question fired at him every day as he picked up his drink, but never just a statement.

It's Monday and today, instead of putting the small mug down, Sherlock hands it over carefully, uncurling his long fingers as John receives the weight of it. There is a warm graze on the inside of John's thumb as their digits unlace from each other.

Only seconds after he sits at the table a shape passes him and a body plomps down in the high-back wing chair opposite. Greg.

"Sherlock has worked here for two years," he says conversationally.

John raises an eyebrow, unsure where this is going. He folds his paper.

"Two years next month."

"Oh, right." Still unsure. He places the newspaper carefully down beside his drink.

"I don't think he has ever willingly spoken to a customer in that whole time. In fact, I know he hasn't. Occasionally, if asked a question, he grumbles some kind of answer, but has never initiated any kind of conversation."

Ah, he can see it now. But instead of what he is thinking, he says, "Not the best employee then."

"No, no, he's a terrible employee. Ignores people, issues with authority, rude to his colleagues, possibly the _worst _employee I've ever had."

John nods.

"Makes the best damn coffee in London though. Selects the blends himself, tests them, tastes them, he'd roast the bloody stuff himself if he could. Turns up to work at five to seven every morning and leaves at five past every evening, six days a week. Doesn't take sick days, barely uses holidays."

John glances over at the man in question. He is leaning against the counter on the back wall, an espresso shot to his lips, quite openly watching them talk about him. He is too far away to hear anything, but it doesn't stop the burn in John's cheeks.

"So, twelve hours a day, six days a week, for two years. And _you_ are the first person he has ever really spoken to. The first person he has _chosen_ to speak to."

"Oh."

"You can see why I'm curious?"

"I can."

"So?"

"So what?" John shrugs, wishing he understood himself. "I've no idea why he talks to me. Our conversations are less than scintillating. Just a random question here and there."

"I know. But _why_?" It's not a question he expects an answer to. He just puts it out there and leans back thoughtfully in his chair.

"I like puzzles." Sherlock says the day after, handing over John's coffee. The mug, once again, doesn't touch the counter, moving carefully from one person to the other.

"Me too."

There is no accidental touch of fingers this time.

"Do you like solving them, or do you enjoy _being_ puzzled?" Sherlock's cool blue eyes are fixed on his, as if he expects to see the answer there.

"I'll get back to you on that one," he says and smiles, leaving the other man standing there, looking after him.

It's an odd game they are playing. John has absolutely no idea how it works, what the rules are, if there _are_ any rules, if there's even a game. But he loves it all the same.

What would Sherlock do, he wonders, if John asked a question. Then he wonders why he hasn't thought of it before. What the heck would he even ask him? It couldn't be something boring; Sherlock's questions are never boring. They are always something no one else would dare to ask, or even think to ask. John doesn't really know what he wants to know. Or, rather, he has so much he wants to know he wouldn't know where to start.

Do you like working here? Did you go to university? How long does it take to get your hair looking quite like that? Do you fancy a drink sometime, that's not coffee? Or dinner?

It's raining again. John shakes out his umbrella one-handed, leaving it in the bucket in the porched doorway. He stands for a moment, watching the sheets of water undulating in the buffeting wind, before wiping his feet on the bristled doormat and shoving his way through the heavy door with his good shoulder.

Division is empty. Completely void of other customers. The rain hitting the windows is audible over the muted music piping out from the stereo behind the bar. It is still dark outside, and the streets are quiet, though it is almost half past seven. The rain drives everyone inside, workers waiting until the last moment to make their mad dash, trying to keep dry for as long as possible, counting on the slimmest of slim chances that the rain might fall a little lighter in another minute.

It's not the quiet steady presence of Greg behind the counter today, it's Sally, his assistant manager. The peace is broken by her sharp movements and quick smile – there in a second and gone the next. She has only served him a couple of times and doesn't know what he drinks. She doesn't want to chat about the weather, or the football, or crazy old George who sits in the corner and eats chocolate cake every morning for breakfast. John misses Greg when he's not here.

Sherlock is there though, and has heard John come in. Even though he hasn't turned around, he obviously knows who it is and starts steaming the milk in preparation. John sees Sally throw a look over her shoulder, as if surprised her barista knows something she doesn't. John orders politely, the words feeling alien on his lips, it's been so long since he had to say them.

"Er, saucer and spoon, Sherlock," Sally points out patronisingly in a tone completely unnecessary for a friendly suggestion.

John isn't sure why the need to defend Sherlock rears up in him, but smiles deprecatingly at the young woman. "No thanks, don't like saucers," he says, at exactly the same time as Sherlock raises an eyebrow and snarks out, "John doesn't like saucers."

Sherlock smiles properly at him then, for the first time, though his face hardly changes. Just a twist of the lips and a crease of his eyes. But John sees it, and feels it, and makes sure his fingers brush the younger man's as he accepts his drink.

It's the first contact John has purposefully initiated. And in that one half a second he could swear he feels the whole world shift and change direction. The icy eyes widen as Sherlock cocks his head slightly to one side. John wonders if he wears aftershave, or if he just lets the scent of the coffee permeate his pores and flavour his skin.

"Sometimes I don't talk to anyone for days on end."

"You talk to me." John points out.

"I do." He turns back to his machine and picks up the cloth to wipe down the already clean surface of the bar.

"So, who is she?" Sarah is leaning across the pine-coloured table in the surgery staff room, elbows resting on the surface, a cup of tea concealing the smug smile John knows will be there.

"Sorry?"

"Do I know her? This woman?"

"Which woman?" John asks, but he has a sinking sense that he knows exactly what Sarah is talking about. There had been a moment, a few moments, a while ago where John had thought something might be brewing between the pair of them, Sarah and him. But now it feels long ago and far away. No friendship ever equals one that could have been, once upon a time, something more. And they are lucky to have realised it.

"The one who makes you smile like that when you're staring at nothing."

Doctors have to have a fairly high level of perception and Sarah is good at her job. For the first time, John wishes she wasn't. He wants to tell her he has no idea what she is talking about, but he's never been a brilliant liar.

"There isn't a _woman_."

Sarah smiles indulgently, opening her mouth to chide him for fibbing, but then he sees the spark of realisation in her face. The creases at the corner of her eyes flatten out as they widen. There isn't a woman.

"John," she breathes, "I had no idea."

"To be fair, I didn't have much of one either," he chuckles. He's telling the truth. Sexuality has never been a big problem for him; if he likes someone then he likes them. Only the "someone" has never been so devastatingly _male_ before.

"So... who is he?"

"You don't know him."

"Not what I asked." She raises an eyebrow and sips her cooling drink.

"He makes my coffee in the morning. That's all. A guy I see once a day for ten minutes."

"John!" Sarah laughs, "Have you got a crush on some young barista?"

"Something like that." It sounds pathetic. It _is_ pathetic. What the heck is he thinking? As if Sherlock, of all people, would ever have eyes for him. "It's not, he, he's... I'm not..."

Sarah detects the change in John's tone and reaches a reassuring hand across the table. Her fingers are cool and gentle on his. "Then he's a very lucky barista."

John laughs and shakes his head. What a lot of nonsense. He's suddenly glad he hasn't ended up in some hetero/homosexual crisis over this, because it would be a complete waste of his time and sanity.

It's still raining when John gets home from work. He'll wait until Monday. The game seems to change on Mondays. The first week Sherlock took, this week he is giving. Next week John will ask... Something.

Thinking of him now, as John stands at the stove with a book in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, the taste of coffee seems to glide over his tongue. The rich tang of the tomato sauce he is cooking is swallowed by the sharp bitterness of his imagination, the damp steam of his pasta coils upwards with a seemingly caffeine-rich aroma. He wants to smell Sherlock, he wants to lean across the counter at the back bar of Division and bury his nose in the lightly curling hair at the nape of his long neck, where his own secret scent is hiding, untouched by coffee grains and milk steam cloying the air.

His bed is cold that night, the cotton of his sheets cool against his skin. John feels the need to pull his duvet up over his head and breathe out hot air to warm his make-shift cave. He stays in there until his head swims from a lack of oxygen. His feet are still cold.

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_Reviews feed my soul. It's always hungry..._


	4. Chapter 4

_**A.N.** Sorry this has taken soooo long. Real-life issues and whatnot, nothing to go into here! I'll try and keep my updates more regular from now on. _

_Once again, thanks to **Daziechane**, who betas and points me in the right direction when I'm lost, and my darling friend_ _**Cookie** for fundamental support and coffee-related information. _

* * *

Alf, the courier, another morning regular of Division who drinks lavishly creamy mocha blends with chocolate sprinkles and various flavoured syrups that change every day, delivers a late package to the clinic the next day, a heavy looking box most likely full of files of some sort, just as John is leaving. John raises a farewell hand to Shona, the painfully efficient practice manager, grins at Alf's greeting and slips his tired body through the closing door a good fifteen minutes earlier than usual. The temperature outside is a relief rather than a shock, cool and damp after the dry heat of the artificially heated clinic, and he welcomes the sting in his cheeks, the breeze ruffling his hair.

He could get the bus home, or even the tube, but it's only a couple of stops either way and it's not raining, or even that cold, and if he doesn't keep himself at least a little active he'll stiffen up and maybe even surrender that last lingering firmness of muscle to podge.

The roads and pavements are busy, people heading home from work, or out for Friday night on the town. He could be going out too; Mike had texted him earlier, asking if he wanted to meet at the pub. It had been a tempting offer, but he had turned it down in favour of a quiet evening in with a film and a takeaway. He smiles at the thought that maybe, finally, he is getting a bit old.

He has reached the familiar parade of shops around the corner from his flat. Clearly earlier than usual; there are still lights on in most of them, people cleaning up for the day, preparing for the Saturday shift. Normally this part of town is dark and quiet, only the odd pedestrian, the sounds of traffic and far off revellers, a couple of smokers stood outside the pub on the corner. John pauses as the door to Division opens, almost colliding with a woman walking in the opposite direction when his body stops him to look.

Sherlock is putting the bins out, carrying heavy black plastic sacks and piling them at the outside corner of the porch. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, as usual, but there is no apron around his slim hips. A tail of black shirt is coming untucked from the waistband of his dark trousers and his normally perfectly styled curled mop of hair flops scruffily over his forehead. John wishes, for a moment, that he could be one of the evening clientele rather than the morning, if they get to see him looking like that every day.

Sherlock meets his eyes immediately as he looks up, as if he knew he was there all along, "Coffee?"

The offer is a surprise. Surely he should just want to clean up and close up. Is he only offering to be polite? Would Sherlock ever offer anything just to be polite?

"It's a bit late," he manages to say, though it is far from what he is actually thinking.

"I could make you a decaf." The wrinkle in Sherlock's nose shows exactly what he thinks of that.

"Where's the point in that?"

"My thoughts precisely."

* * *

The only light comes from behind the bar, casting long shadows across the seating area, the darkness blending cosiness, broken only where the light catches the corners of the wooden chairs and stools. From behind the bar he hears the muted music from the stereo, something classical and sad, a sweeping mournful song that John would find it impossible to work along to. He would stop and stand and listen, remembering and recalling and letting himself drift somewhere else entirely.

A careful low voice interrupts his standing and drifting, "Try this," and Sherlock passes a miniscule espresso cup over, carefully feeding it into John's hands and using his own fingers to wrap John's around it, as if it is a precious gift and not at all to be dropped.

John breathes in the coffee steam, letting it open his sinuses, burning until his eyes begin to sting. He puts the cups to his lips, the glazed pot cool after the hot vapour rising into his face. There is something decadent about drinking coffee in the semi-dark, more intense. He'll have to try it more often to see if he can pin down exactly why, though he suspects the setting and company does a good job of amplifying the effect.

There is a heavy gaze on him, John can feel it in the light ache at the base of his skull, in the prickling of his neck. He looks up to meet it, the cold eyes suddenly heated and curious. The tip of his mug is automatic, the flow of the drink over his tongue as much a comfort as an excitement.

He frowns; something is off. He looks accusingly at the espresso in his hand. Nothing major, nothing he can put his finger on. Another sip, swirled around his mouth like a wine connoisseur taking a first taste. He looks to Sherlock again, catching the tiny tip of a smile.

"New blend?"

"Ethiopian," he nods.

John presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to analyse it. He isn't an expert; he has no idea what is different, just that it _is_.

"It's a little darker," Sherlock explains, leaning closer to take the cup back from John's hand and swallowing a long slow mouthful. John watches the lift and drop of his throat, the flicker of his tongue tasting the trace in the corner of his mouth. Sherlock smiles his notice. "Just a shade. Peppery hints. Slightly clearer acidic aftertaste, but still smooth."

John swallows too, unsure if his saliva increase is from the coffee or something else entirely. He has a sudden urge to move forwards, abandon the notion of cups and taste it directly from Sherlock's mouth. He would lean in, press into the cushioning of those full lips, use his own to part them, to open his mouth, to breathe in his air and scent the tang of coffee on his breath. He grabs on to the edge of the bar, as if it will steady him, lock him in place.

Sherlock notices that too. But he doesn't smile, he just looks, before turning and flicking a couple of switches on the machine. While it hums away he stretches his long arm and reaches behind the display of packaged beans for sale and draws out a half-empty bottle of Jameson's.

"Are you going to make me an Irish coffee?" John smiles. Right now that sounds like heaven.

A quick glance at him from the corner of an eye, a tiny nod, and Sherlock reaches for two mugs and warms them under the hot water. The metallic sound of the lid twisting off the glass bottle is a beautiful, comfortable sound. Sherlock's measures of whiskey are generous, his tipping hand steady and confident as he uses the other to orchestrate the familiar movements of brewing the coffee. He adds sugar to the mugs, stirring it in and then the coffee in a smooth movement. Then the cream, over the back of a spoon in a practised movement that implies he has done this before, a lot. The cream settles itself nice and levelly on surface and John's mouth is watering again.

The mugs in Division aren't as disgustingly large as many of the mainstream coffee shops, but they aren't normal human size. Sherlock's hands are large enough, however, that they don't look odd as he scoops them up. He nods to the seating area.

There are papers spread across John's usual table, charts and lists scattered across the surface. He is surprised that Sherlock sits at _his _table, but he likes it. It an odd way. From the direction of the arrangement of the documents he obviously sits in the chair opposite John's. The sensible part of his brain notes its position gives the seated a clear view of the door and the counter, while the less sensible part wonders if the reasons he sits there have anything to do with him.

Sherlock moves forwards. He could wait for John to move out of the way, but he doesn't. John could move out of the way and allow him space to move out onto the shop floor, but he doesn't. So instead they make contact, Sherlock's back to John's front, shirt back to shirt front. Being this close, he realises quite how profound their height difference is, as the tip of his nose grazes a shoulder.

It is the perfect opportunity to breathe him in, discover finally what he smells like, but instead John is careful not to. Because then, of course, he'd have to stop wondering.

John shucks off his coat and slings it over the back of his chair before settling into the familiar plump cushions. He shifts from side to side automatically, rearranging the filling to his satisfaction, erasing the traces and contours of the countless other people that have sat there today. The chair shapes itself around him immediately, almost fondly, giving out a welcoming creak.

Sherlock puts John's drink down, turning the handle to the left, before shuffling and ruffling the papers into some sort of pile and taking his place comfortably in the armchair opposite.

Conversation, John remembers a full minute later, he should attempt to start some kind of conversation. They can't just sit here and look at each other in silence all evening. Can they?

In the end it's not him that speaks first. It's Sherlock. Quietly, with his fingers to his lips and his eyes fixed on John's. "I, erm, I find myself quite... _fascinated_."

"By what?" John frowns. Has he missed something here? Should he know what the other man is talking about?

"You, John."


End file.
